Under The Same Sky
by Madame Oubliette
Summary: Voldemort is gone. Snape is forgotten. That is, until an unexpected encounter in Azkaban leads Hermione to question his long accepted guilt and inadvertently invoke allout psychological warfare. HGSS
1. Prologue

Prologue 

Hermione winced at the sound of her feet slapping against the floor, the echo reverberating conspicuously off the walls. Despite her growing anxiety to escape the stale, hanging air she forced herself to slow as she entered a dimly-lit stretch of corridor, bereft even of the inadequate wall torches. She was about to reach into her robes to cast a quick _Lumos_ spell before she remembered that her wand had been confiscated upon arrival. No wonder the Governor had been so apprehensive when she had shrugged off her official guides and insisted on an independent inspection, she thought wryly to herself. Sighing, she wrapped her cloak tighter around her body and plunged into the darkness.

Seconds went by as she plodded cautiously forward, only the sound of dripping water accompanying her subdued footsteps. Drip. Drip. Drip. She paused to run her hand speculatively along the glistening wall, recoiling as her fingers came into contact with a spongy mass growing in a crack.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Hermione jumped, spinning around with an angry retort ready on her lips before she saw that the corridor behind her was empty.

"At least not if you value your fingers," the voice continued with an unpleasant snigger. "But then you never did set much store by advice from your superiors."

There was something in that cold and sneering tone which seemed to resonate in Hermione's memory, and she found the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end in the chill air.

"P-professor?" she stammered, stepping tentatively forward.

"It's been a long time since anyone's called me that – although I've been called just about everything else in the interim." He laughed humourlessly.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered.

Snape let out a harsh peal of laughter. "Yes, I had rather noticed visitor numbers dropping off these last couple of years – and here was me worrying that I had done something to offend my gracious public."

"You haven't changed a bit," Hermione flashed angrily, lifting up her foot to leave as the entrancing effect of hearing his voice after so long wore off.

"You, on the other hand…" He left his sentence hanging, his voice all silky innuendo. "I'd feign an interest in what you're doing with yourself these days, but then I barely cared what the brats in my own house got up to once they left Hogwarts, so I won't pretend that I'm being eaten up by curiosity now."

She took a step back in shock as she realised that he was watching her, eyes darting around as she attempted to locate him in the dark. She could just make out an outline of metal bars in front of her as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, but Snape remained hidden somewhere in the depths of his cell. She stepped forward and peered into the impenetrable blackness.

"Get back!" he snarled, a loud metal clanking noise alerting Hermione to the presence of shackles. "I never was much of a morning person," he smirked, smoothly recovering his veneer.

"You're mad," Hermione murmured, a note of pity creeping into her voice.

"Suprisingly sane, actually – which is something of a compliment to my character considering the lack of sensory stimulation this place has to offer. I used to read a book a day," he remarked sadly, his voice dropping to a thin whisper of longing.

"You sold us all out to Voldemort and you expect sympathy over the lack of reading material?" Hermione said incredulously.

"Actually, I expect you to arrange for some privileges, but I suppose there's time yet for that. Your sympathy you can keep."

Hermione's mouth gaped open in outrage. She tried to speak, but her mind had flooded with the countless insults she had heard spat against Snape in the years since his betrayal, so that when she finally managed to engage her tongue someone else's words seemed to leap out. "I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire," she growled.

"I don't know where you got the impression that I would want you to," he said smoothly, "and I would rather hope that Professor Flitwick had educated you to a higher standard than that. Still, Muggle-borns will be Muggles."

"And I suppose half-bloods will be insecure megalomaniacs?" Hermione countered fiercely, flushing in the dark.

"Oh, you are getting the hang of this!" Snape exclaimed, brightening up considerably. "But I was never ashamed of being the Half-Blood Prince."

Hermione took a deep breath, schooling herself not to let him rattle her– after all, he had been reduced to taunting her from behind bars while she looked on with disdain. "Let me see you," she demanded, chin jutting forward defiantly.

"I wouldn't want to tarnish all the golden memories," he sniggered unpleasantly.

"You want to know how I'll remember you? A bitter, twisted man cowering away in a dark and forgotten corner of Azkaban. And very shortly even that memory will cease to exist. I'll walk away and simply… forget." She smiled wanly, nodding a final acknowledgement to Snape before spinning on her heel and starting to walk away.

"Granger! Granger!" he shouted hoarsely, shackles clanking madly as he scrambled forward in his cell.

She paused but refrained from turning around, fists clenched angrily at her sides.

"Come, come – you and I both know that's not true," he said silkily.

Silence.

"Because to forget me is to lose any hope of finding the answer."

"Answer? I wasn't aware I had asked a question," she replied tartly.

"Precisely – that's the problem," Snape said, with the impatient air of explaining a simple boils solution to a particularly slow Hufflepuff. "You can't expect to find the correct answer if you don't think to ask the right question first. So I want you to go away and consider the following – a sort of homework assignment, if you will."

"I think you'll find that you lost _that_ prerogative nearly ten years ago," Hermione shot back.

Snape ignored her interjection as he mentally conjured the right words with which to frame his question. "The Dark Lord was the most feared wizard of our age," he began carefully. "One wizard alone evoked his fear. Note that this wizard was dispatched not after a lengthy duel of awe-inspiring consequence but with a quick flick of the wand by a disinterested follower. So I ask you this; do you really think that Dumbledore would have wasted his last moments pleading for his life like a common Muggle – what was he _really_ asking for, do you think?"

Hermione snorted contemptuously, angry with herself for staying even this long to hear him out. "Goodbye, Snape."

He craned forward, listening to the diminishing sound of her footsteps. Finally, when they were swallowed by the sound of the dripping water, he leaned against the wall of his cell and smiled to himself. She would be back.

( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( & ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) )

4


	2. Chapter 1 : Half A Knut

Chapter 1: Half A Knut

Minerva McGonagall had never been one for heartfelt speeches – that sort of thing had always been Dumbledore's forte. She could read out the start of term notices briskly enough - she could even retain the attention of a classroom of fourth year students on a sunny Friday afternoon - but what she could not do was indulge in the sentimental with any degree of flair. Nevertheless, the task had fallen to her in the aftermath of Dumbledore's demise and so she cleared her throat expectantly.

"Firstly, thank you everyone for coming." She nodded in acknowledgement at the small assembly in the Head's office. "Albus was never one for long speeches – why ruin a perfectly good meal, was his frequent rejoinder." She paused as a small ripple of laughter broke out. "So knowing that he would hate to think of his friends deprived of food and drink on his behalf I'll keep this brief." Another pause as she took a deep breath. "When I remember Albus, I remember his fondness for Muggle sweets; I remember his absurd delight upon receiving socks for Christmas; I remember his infuriating habit of whistling snatches of half-remembered songs under his breath – in short, I remember Albus the man. You see, Albus was that rare combination of a great wizard and a great man, and when we come together every year to celebrate his birthday we ensure that not only will his great deeds be remembered and handed down for posterity but also his kindness, his wisdom and his friendship. So let's drink to old friends. To Albus." She raised her goblet in a toast.

"To Albus," her audience repeated in unison.

Professor McGonagall surveyed the familiar faces clustered around her as conversation broke out again, her smile tinged with a certain degree of sadness. Her roving gaze fell briefly on the sad figure of Tonks, gazing across the room at Lupin with a mixture of longing and pain etched on her features as Bill and Fleur's little girl swung on her arm. She tried not to let her gaze linger oo long or too obviously on Bill, but the astonishing beauty of his flanking wife served to emphasise the terrible ruin of his features and she fought to master a sudden flash of anger. It occurred to her quite suddenly that there had been no need to lecture them on the necessity to remember – for how could any of them possibly forget?

"A Knut for your thoughts," a rough voice growled in her ear.

"Moody, you startled me," McGonagall said sternly, making a fuss of straightening the collar to her robes as she recovered from the indignity of being caught unawares.

"Begging your pardon," Mad-Eye said, inclining his head ever so slightly. "Constant vigilance, that's the key," he barked abruptly, tapping his hip flask with a gnarled finger in demonstration.

McGonagall let out an exasperated sigh. "Really, Moody, I hardly think anyone is going to slip something into the pumpkin juice _here_."

"The Weasley twins decline their invitation, did they?" Mad-Eye said darkly, raising the remains of an eyebrow.

"I rather think they've surpassed such crudity," McGonagall said dismissively. "Five shops, a nationwide owl order service, _Witch Weekly_ covers…"

"Seems like they put their time at Hogwarts to good use after all," Lupin broke in, wandering over with a knowing smile on his face.

"Maybe I should encourage more of my students to storm out of school without any N.E.W.T.'s, leaving behind a trail of simmering fireworks, an immovable swamp of Stinksap and two broomstick-shaped holes," McGonagall said in a pinched voice, although there was a suppressed smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

"Well, no one can ever claim that they lacked style," Lupin grinned.

"N.E.W.T.'s are overrated anyway," Moody growled, waving his hand dismissively. "Take Hermione Granger," he nodded in her general direction, "didn't do her much good."

McGonagall checked briefly over her shoulder before returning her attention to Moody, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Horace practically guaranteed her a job in the investment division at Gringotts – didn't want to know!"

Moody nodded grimly. "Some sort of misplaced pride, I suppose. It's always worse with Muggle-borns – feel they have to make it on their own."

"No, not at all! She certainly didn't object to help from Arthur and Kingsley." McGonagall sniffed disapprovingly. "With grades like hers she could have gone on to do anything she set her mind to."

"And yet she set her mind to drafting legislation on the thickness of cauldron bottoms," Lupin finished succinctly, popping an olive in his mouth. "Excuse me."

Hermione's knuckles whitened around the stem of her goblet as she watched Lupin disengage himself from the muttered conversation and wend his way toward her. Of course, she knew what they had been talking about, for it hadn't been so long ago that such conversations had been conducted unashamedly to her face.

Personally, she didn't see what was so incredible about her decision to work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – Arthur Weasley had moulded away in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office for years. She still wanted to do something worthwhile, but cold pragmatism had replaced youthful passion in the years since she had founded S.P.E.W. and she had reconciled herself to the fact that institutional change was achieved only from working within the system. No amount of pamphleteering or clever acronyms could match the effectiveness of simply turning up to work at the Ministry every day and familiarising herself with as many procedures and personnel as possible – even if her current role didn't quite hold the sort of glamour tailored for dynamic introductions at cocktail parties.

"How are you, Hermione? Still enjoying work at the Ministry?" Lupin took a sip from his goblet as he eyed Hermione over the rim.

"Oh, they keep me busy," she replied vaguely, a brief flash of surprise crossing her features as she faced her former teacher. Despite the lasting impact he had created in his short-lived career at Hogwarts he had rarely returned the compliment by maintaining an interest in the development of his former pupils. She preferred to imagine that it brought back too many painful memories, but back in the recesses of her mind, where she rarely ventured, some feelings had been allowed to smoulder independent of such measured considerations. For herself, she couldn't give a damn about Lupin's curiously off-hand manner, but she couldn't forgive him for not stepping into the role of substitute father figure to Harry after it had been vacated by the cruel death of Sirius.

"So what are you working on at the moment?"

Hermione regarded him warily, trying to gauge his intent. "Actually, I'm writing a report on Azkaban," she said quietly.

Lupin whistled softly under his breath.

"It's typical junior minister fodder – all litigious responsibility, zero glory. Nobody _wants_ to think about the Dementor problem. In fact, I don't think anyone even wants to think about Azkaban at all these days."

He raised an eyebrow. "I always thought that was the whole point of Azkaban – to send people away to forget."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. To forget… isn't that what she had promised to do? And yet… she scrunched up her eyes as the image of the dank corridor reared in her mind. She could taste the metallic chill of the air, almost hear that cold voice sneering in her ear.

"Hermione, are you alright?" Lupin said, gazing into her face with concern.

"I – yes," Hermione said slowly, opening her eyes. She eyed him shrewdly for a few seconds, seeming to weigh something up in her mind before, glancing quickly over her shoulder to ascertain that Harry was nowhere in the vicinity, she continued. "Lupin, have you ever been to Azkaban?"

He shook his head apologetically.

"I have, and it's not a pleasant place. The ceilings and walls drip with slime and even the sunlight seems to have given up any hope of breaking out. It's cold and damp and when you leave you feel as though your skin is never going to be clean again - as though gloom and depression can cling to skin as tangibly as the grime on the dank walls."

"I have heard similar reports," Lupin said gently.

Hermione continued. "And that's only the sections they air to the public. I went right down to the bowels of Azkaban; I went to the places that even the forgotten try to forget. And do you know what I found there?"

Lupin looked at her sharply, eyes burning in his pale and tired face.

"_Him_," she finished significantly.

Lupin clutched convulsively at his goblet and steered Hermione hastily into a quieter corner. "Are you quite sure?" he hissed urgently.

"Oh I don't think there's any way I could have mistaken that sense of humour," she said darkly.

"You know that you can't tell anyone this?" He regarded her intently, eyes scanning her face. "Least of all Harry."

"I know, I know," she said with a resigned sigh.

"Because if word of this gets out…"

He didn't need to finish his sentence. Hermione already knew that the fragile peace won in the aftermath of the war could just as easily be shattered with the news that Voldemort's most loyal and trusted servant was alive and snarking in the depths of Azkaban, waiting for unrepentant followers to rally around his standard. It was for this reason that the _Daily Prophet_ had been banned from publishing any news pertaining to convicted Death Eaters - least of all telling obituaries which would add another martyr to the cause, despite the overall soothing effect such news may have had on the general public.

"Did he seem sane?" Lupin said suddenly, leaning forward with an expression of mingled curiosity on his features.

"I – I don't know. That's to say, he seemed perfectly capable of holding a conversation but there was a sort of unstable undercurrent and – and he seemed to expect me to come back."

"Why on earth would he think that?" Lupin said incredulously.

"Because," Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say, "he seemed to imply that he knew something about Dumbledore's death which would cast his actions in a quite different light - at least, that's the only explanation I've been able to come up with these last few weeks."

Lupin shook his head sadly. "So he has finally lost his mind then."

"But what if-"

"No, Hermione," Lupin cut her off sharply with a stern look. "There are no what ifs, there are no maybes, there are no excuses. Snape murdered Dumbledore and betrayed us all to Voldemort as surely as he betrayed James and Lily. And don't imagine that confinement has diminished his danger. He may not have his wand anymore but he's still more than capable of weaving dark magic. _Leave it be_."

Hermione was slightly taken aback by the vehemence of his answer. "I thought you might have an open mind – you were one of the few people willing to give Snape the benefit of the doubt when he was in the Order."

"And look where that got me," Lupin sighed. "Perhaps all along I merely hoped, rather than believed, that he was good."

"You weren't totally alone," Hermione said in a quiet voice. "When I think of all the times I defended him to Harry!"

Lupin shrugged. "If he could deceive Dumbledore then he could deceive any one of us." He paused. "Which is why I don't drink at the Hog's Head any more!" he finished brightly.

Hermione thought that this was an extremely odd conclusion to his statement but then she caught sight of Tonks hovering at his side and understood the need to terminate the conversation at this oddly frustrating juncture.

"Wotcher, Hermione!" She grinned. "Don't mind if I steal my husband back for a few minutes?"

Hermione shook her head, forcing a smile on her face. She rather wished that Tonks hadn't chose that particular point to materialise – but then she was not exactly famous for graceful co-ordination. There could be few men alive who could claim to know Snape as thoroughly as Lupin; fellow student, colleague, ally.

She wasn't stupid. She knew that this was exactly what Snape had intended in his cold and calculated way – for all she knew he could have had that little speech rehearsed for years before someone from his old life just happened across his cell. And yet who else would have gone away and allowed such an exchange to trouble their mind? Not Ron. He would have scoffed a chocolate frog upon leaving and not given another moment's thought to the encounter. And Harry wouldn't have even stayed beyond the first 'hello' – except perhaps to gloat. That only left Hermione Granger, the insufferable know-it-all rigged up with some kind of Pavlovian response to questions which rendered her quite incapable of leaving one unanswered. Damn the man.

( & )

Hermione paused, trying to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing as she stood poised on the threshold to commitment. It was not yet too late to turn around and go home; she could easily inform the guards that she had collected all the supplementary data she needed and never return to this accursed place. Except that she knew she was not going to do that - she knew there was a reason why she had ignored Lupin's warning and her own better judgement to come here again. Taking a deep calming breath she ploughed forward into the darkness, stopping just short of Snape's cell.

"Took you long enough to figure it out, didn't it?" an amused voice drawled lazily. "But then I knew you'd return eventually."

"You sound awfully sure of yourself," Hermione said frostily, stepping up to the metal bars.

"So where are my special privileges then?" Snape barked without further preamble.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Special privileges, where are they? I assumed that your adult education had stretched to the realisation that there's, ah, no such thing as a free lunch – at least not among Slytherins," he sneered.

"Do you really think you're in a position to issue ultimatums?" Hermione said meekly.

"You've been mulling my words over for weeks and weeks – an intrigueing puzzle which almost takes you back to those exciting, heady days when you were clashing wands with the Dark Lord himself and generally immersing yourself in a life or death struggle against the encroaching tide of evil rather than the encroaching tide of household dust – so don't tell me that I don't have something you want."

"Oh forget it," Hermione said contemptuously, making to turn away.

"Alright, alright! I'll settle for some hot water – for now. Make the necessary arrangements and I'll talk."

An hour later and Hermione was sat drumming her fingers boredly on an interview room table, wondering when Snape would deign to roll up – it was not as though a convict who had had perpetually greasy hair even when he was at liberty needed this long to fix his toilette. She looked up as she heard the unmistakable sound of clanking irons emanating from beyond the open door.

The flanking guards grunted in acknowledgement as they thrust a thin, stooping figure onto the facing chair, deftly running his chains through a metal hoop on the floor before shutting the door behind them with a loud bang.

Hermione took the opportunity to examine her former Potions teacher across the table. His hair hung in tangled knots around a gaunt and sallow face peppered with patchy black stubble. The thinness of his face served to further accentuate his hooked nose and there were prominent lines framing his mouth which she couldn't recall from his Hogwarts days. Yet despite his physical diminution he had lost none of his presence, resonating an icy intimidation.

He regarded her in turn, eyes burning like black coals. He saw merely what he wanted to see; he saw the cowed and pliable girl from his Potions classroom rather than the witch she had become.

"I suppose you want to know why I killed Dumbledore," he said slowly when he finally spoke.

Hermione bit back the obvious retort – she was certainly not here for her health.

"It's a long story," he said affably, settling back in his chair with a certain degree of satisfaction as he marvelled at the novelty of feeling clean.

"I've got time," she replied tersely.

"Oh, but of course you have," Snape smiled ingratiatingly, revealing a line of uneven yellow teeth. "I merely worry that I might omit to mention certain details due to my own state of fatigue."

"What do you want?" Hermione said coldly, quickly wising up to Snape's ways.

He waved his hand. "You can arrange for an appropriate dinner before you go. But for now I would like a cigarette."

Hermione goggled at him. "You think I'm going to let you near anything remotely flammable?"

Snape sighed impatiently. "Miss Granger, my limbs are shackled in goblin-wrought irons, I am currently fixed to a concrete floor of at least four feet distance from you – what am I going to do, blow smoke in your face?" His lip curled derisively.

Hermione coloured, scurrying over to the door to make her request to the guards through the metal flap. She returned with a lit cigarette which she placed gingerly on the table and with obvious distaste. Snape leaned forward with a cumbersome clanking of chains and took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaling with an audible sigh.

"Nine years abstention and I still haven't kicked the habit," he remarked dryly, raising an eyebrow at Hermione. "One of the little luxuries in life that went some way toward making teaching you dunderheads bearable." He examined the slim white stick in his hand.

"You were telling me why you killed Dumbledore," Hermione reminded him sharply.

"Of course, there was always the option of Firewhisky," Snape continued, as though she hadn't spoken, "but then you have to have your wits about you to do what I did, and it's no good rolling up to the Dark Lord befuddled by alcohol and expecting to block your mind to his searching gaze. Another of the little sacrifices I endured – not that anyone ever thanked me for it," he sneered.

"I wasn't aware that anyone joined the Order of the Phoenix for the gratitude," Hermione shot back.

"I was fighting the Dark Lord before you even knew of his existence in your safe little Muggle world," Snape hissed through clenched teeth. "Do not presume to lecture me on matters of which you are ignorant."

He took another drag on his cigarette, fixing his cold black eyes on her.

"Dumbledore told us that you joined out of remorse when you realised that the information you passed Voldemort regarding the prophecy had led him to the Potters," Hermione said dully.

Snape laughed harshly. "Remorse? Over an arrogant puffed-up bully? I don't think so, Granger. I would have gladly danced on his grave - if enough of him had remained to necessitate one."

"Dumbledore always did underestimate his enemy's capacity for cruelty," Hermione said with a disgusted look on her face.

Snape banged his fist down angrily on the table, making Hermione jump. "I was working for the Order long before any prophecy was uttered – why do you think I only fed Voldemort the first half; _the half that would almost certainly lead to his self-destruction_?"

Hermione folded her arms and fixed him with a sceptical glare. "He told Harry that you were still in his employ at that time – that you only ever heard the first half of the prophecy when Trelawney was being interviewed before you were caught eavesdropping and ejected. And yet…" she paused, forehead puckering as she realised something did not quite fit, "and yet Trelawney distinctly told Harry that you were only discovered eavesdropping _after_ her interview. So why did…?" she broke off, looking at Snape with a confused expression on her face.

"Why did Dumbledore tell Potter otherwise? Because if anyone should feel remorse over the Potters' deaths it is Dumbledore. Yes, Dumbledore," he repeated as he regarded Hermione's flash of anger. "It was Dumbledore who ordered me to provide only the first half of the prophecy to the Dark Lord – I was all ready to throw in my lot with the Order at that point, but who else could stand before him and utter a credible lie? In doing so he consigned either the Longbottoms or the Potters to their graves. A relatively small price to pay for vanquishing the most powerful dark wizard of the age, but not one of which I think Potter would have approved, somehow." He inclined his head to one side and treated Hermione to a smirk. "And I can tell you that plenty of Death Eaters affected to feel remorse at the Potters' deaths – an event which did, after all, result in the destruction of their Dark Lord and protector – but I don't recall Dumbledore speaking up on their behalf at any of _their_ trials."

Hermione slumped back into her chair, colour draining from her face. "But that still doesn't explain why you killed Dumbledore," she said, but her tone was one of confusion rather than accusation.

Snape leaned back in his chair, eyeing her shrewdly as he took one final drag on the depleted cigarette. "No, it doesn't."

"Well?" Hermione snapped impatiently.

"As a rule, I never lay all my cards out on the table at once. It's your turn to deal."

( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( & ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) )

A/N: thanks for all the feedback – especially the constructive criticism, which I have tried to address with some minor revisions. As to comments that Hermione's current belligerence toward Snape is somewhat OOC – well, yes and no. Yes, the Hermione detailed thus far is _not_ canon Hermione in the sense that the Hermione we all know and love from the books is compassionate, somewhat reserved in making snap black-and-white judgements and all-round impassioned elf-rights fighter. But no, in the sense that the Hermione we know from the books predates Dumbledore's murder – I think anger would be the least of Hermione's emotions upon being suddenly confronted with this spectre from the past. However, once the initial shock wears off and she comes to terms with Snape's innocence… well keep your eyes peeled.

1) Does Snape smoke? I don't know, but I imagine that maybe the odd menthol cigarette came in useful after teaching those insufferable Gryffindor brats ;)

10


	3. Chapter 2 : The Missing Page

Chapter 2: The Missing Page 

Dumbledore's death had shook the very foundations of Hermione's world; Hogwarts was no longer the safe and happy haven it had been, while the Order of the Phoenix suddenly found itself floundering without leadership or intelligence. If questioned about her coming of age, Hermione would have dated the momentous event not to the random day on which her seventeenth birthday happened to fall that summer but rather to the day of Dumbledore's funeral when she had said goodbye to more than just her Headmaster.

She did a lot of growing up that summer, leaving behind old haunts and friends. But the sense of betrayal was something which never left her, clinging as stubbornly as the irrational feelings of guilt over her neglectful vigilance that night. Snape was the obvious channel for her sense of frustration and anger. If anyone became the face of their campaign it was no longer the mysterious and cloaked entity that was Voldemort, but the familiar and sneering face of her former teacher; he who had killed Dumbledore and endangered the very existence of the Order of the Phoenix. But eventually justice had been served, and with his incarceration had come a definite end to Hermione's war. She had felt neither pity nor vindication as he had been led away in chains, merely a hollow feeling that it was finally over. And yet now it felt as though she had been reading from a script missing several pages, and in reconstructing the plot she must surely re-evaluate the ending.

She looked up in surprise as she entered the interview room and saw that Snape was already waiting for her, denying her the opportunity to spend a few moments collecting her thoughts. Despite the interval since her last visit she did not feel any more certain of her convictions, see-sawing between conflicting emotions. Clearly Snape had managed to spend the time in a more constructive manner, for any previous traces of hysteria had been thoroughly expunged, replaced with the calm façade of a rigidly controlled demeanour.

"My compliments to you," Snape said, nodding his head across the table at Hermione as she sat down stiffly, carefully placing her briefcase on the floor. "some simple tasks at least seem within your capabilities."

With great effort she held her tongue – there had certainly been nothing simple in the matter of arranging more convivial accommodation for the Death Eater held responsible for Albus Dumbledore's murder. At least the Ministry's preference for ignoring the existence of Azkaban had finally worked in her favour as she was quite certain that, even if someone did notice any anomalies, they would be more than happy to leave their resolution to a certain Junior Minister assigned especially to the task. She smiled wryly at the thought.

"I think I've even detected an improvement in the slop that serves as food here – why, last night I'm almost certain I identified a piece of gristle which may once have constituted a quadruped."

Hermione regarded him coolly, arms folded across her chest as she waited for him to get to the point, distrust etched clearly on her features. He turned his glittering black eyes on her, a slight quirk of his eyebrow issuing an unspoken challenge.

She sighed loudly, dispensing with his mind games by broaching the subject herself. "So why kill Dumbledore? Even if it's true that your allegiance to Voldemort was only pretence, surely Dumbledore's life was worth more to the Order than your intelligence?"

Snape snorted contemptuously. "There you go again, typical Gryffindor arrogance. So stuck in your egocentric little universe that you can't possibly conceive of a higher order of things beyond the primitive immediacy of physical heroics. That was always Black's problem," he spat the name as though its very utterance was contagion on his lips. "Too arrogant to deign to consider that his impulsive actions might impact on anyone else - least of all allow the Dark Lord access to the very people he had been sworn in to protect as secret-keeper."

"Sirius wasn't to know that Wormtail was a traitor – none of you knew!" Hermione said passionately.

"Yes, because Black allowed his own self-importance to shadow any judgement he may have been capable of making, assuming that no one would bother with sniffling, insignificant Peter Pettigrew while he was in the picture," Snape sneered.

"That's unfair," Hermione said quietly, although a small voice in her head conceded that though Sirius' habit of wearing his heart on his sleeve may have been an attractive trait in a friend it had been a dangerous one in a comrade.

"Is it? A man so puffed up by his sense of worth that he neglected even to inform Dumbledore of the switch? Because heaven forbid that Black should constrain himself to the same protocol as everyone else and accept Dumbledore's explicit instructions on the face of faith alone." He paused, carefully gathering his composure as he threatened to become diverted from his intended course.

"So you're saying that your information was more important to the Order than Dumbledore himself," Hermione said sceptically, "the man you freely admit was the only one Voldemort ever feared?"

Snape paused, running a long white finger along his lower lip. "Dumbledore was aware that this was not going to be a conventional war along the lines of that fought against Grindelwald. We were not dealing in a war between individuals ranged on either side of a competing godhead, but rather a battle between ideals – of diametrically opposed forces. On the one hand an undiluted and powerful darkness, and on the other a force which Dumbledore preferred to call 'love,'" Snape sneered, leaving Hermione in no doubt as to his opinion on the chosen terminology.

"_But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not_," Hermione murmured, quoting the words from the prophecy. She looked back to Snape, the hint of a frown on her face as she considered the possibilities of what he was saying.

"Precisely," Snape replied, leaning back in his seat and fixing his gaze on her. "Which explains the Dark Lord's increasingly elaborate attempts to negate the liability by dispatching with Potter and the lingering magical protection offered by his mother's blood. Of course, you'll note that as much as it pained me to save the insufferable little turd for another year in my classroom I performed the task for the sake of preserving the accidental power residing within his veins."

"That was something I never understood," Hermione said, looking up quickly into Snape's drawn face, "because at first there always seemed to be another, rather more self-serving explanation. When you blocked Quirrell's curse in the first year we all thought you were merely repaying the debt you owed his father for saving your life."

"A life which wouldn't have needed saving if the recklessness of his friend hadn't endangered it in the first place!" Snape snapped angrily.

"Well, quite." Hermione directed the briefest of nods before continuing. "And then when you followed us into the shrieking shack we suspected that you were more concerned with cornering Sirius than saving his captives. But once Voldemort returned you had no reason for protecting Harry if you really were his loyal follower. Why appear in Moody's Foe-Glass accompanied by McGonagall and Dumbledore? Why alert Dumbledore to Harry's presence in the Department of Ministries? Why lead the Death Eaters out of Hogwarts on the night of Dumbledore's death when they were clearly winning the battle at that stage?"

"It's a shame no one thought to ask such pertinent questions at a trial," Snape said bitterly.

"But that still doesn't answer the most important question of all," she said in pained tones, "_why kill Dumbledore_?"

Snape considered the question carefully, examining his long white fingers. Thus far he had imparted only the known, and wondered at how to introduce the next, delicate phase. There was something about the intensity of her manner – both accusatory and eager to please at one and the same time – that rankled him. She would not have been his first choice. But then again, she was playing the role he had staged surprisingly well.

Hermione held her breath, sensing an internal battle raging behind the deceptively rigid features. If it hadn't been for the blazing flashes of hatred in his eyes she would have thought it the face of someone who had simply given up, but she knew better. Snape would keep going forever out of pure spite, if nothing else.

Snape looked up to catch her biting on her lower lip, and grinned wolfishly. He had no shortage of patience. With the passing years other areas of his emotional vocabulary had simply shrivelled up to accommodate the necessary growth. Prison was all about routine; everything ran to the all-commanding dictates of the clock which slowly chimed away life second by second, year by year. Expectation had absolutely no place in the world he inhabited, floating like a useless, half-finished sentence which no one dared speak. He had been waiting seven years for this moment – he was prepared to let her suffer a taste of the same for the pleasure of watching her struggle against his thrall.

"Fetch me a cigarette," he ordered irritably, settling himself more comfortably into the confines of the chair as he tried to conceal a self-satisfied smirk. She was his for the taking now. The power pendulum had swung back.

Hermione had come prepared, unwilling to waste the short amount of time available chasing after Snape's next nicotine fix. Fumbling in her robes she clumsily extracted a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and threw it across the table to Snape. With an almost gentle reverence he peeled back the foil covering and tapped out a cigarette, pocketing the remainder of the pack.

"Light?" he sneered sarcastically, cigarette bobbing up and down between his lips.

She sighed, levering herself up from her chair and walking over to his seat. Wandless, she flared a match, shielding it between her hands as she held it to the end of Snape's cigarette. He shot her a look of pure loathing before stooping toward the tiny flame.

"Has anyone ever told you that smoking kills?" she asked bossily as he took his first pull.

"So do stupid questions but that's never deterred you from the foolish habit," Snape snapped back.

Hermione pursed her lips but refrained from replying, returning to her seat with an affronted air. She watched wordlessly as he leant back in his chair, exhaling a thin stream of smoke at the ceiling. She noticed that there was a tremor in his hand, the cigarette clutched between his fingers perceptibly shaking. He rolled his head on his neck several times before fixing his eyes on her face. She had the horrible feeling that he could see right through her, past the barriers of her eyes and flesh and into the very bones of her skull.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do not like killing. It is an unpleasant activity lacking in any degree of subtlety." He paused, briefly flicking his tongue over his pale lips. "Dumbledore's death was unfortunate but a necessity that I was obligated to perform nevertheless - whatever my personal inclinations."

"The Unbreakable Vow," Hermione muttered to herself as puzzle pieces she had not been aware existed suddenly connected in her mind. "Of course, that's it, isn't it? This has something to do with the Unbreakable Vow you made with Narcissa Malfoy!"

"How do you know about that?" Snape said sharply, alarm briefly flashing across his features before he replaced his inscrutable mask.

"Never you mind," Hermione said oppressively, relenting when she caught sight of his dark features. "We overheard – that is to say, Harry overhead – you speaking to Malfoy during Slughorn's Christmas party," Hermione mumbled, at least having the good grace to blush. Now that she thought about it she couldn't believe that she hadn't analysed this conversation more thoroughly – but she supposed that the rather dramatic gesture of performing the _Avada Kedavra_ curse had driven all such subtleties from her mind and blackened Snape's previous ambiguity beyond question.

Snape pursed his lips. "Then no doubt you understand that Draco was entrusted with the task of killing Dumbledore by none other than the Dark Lord himself. Naturally, this was interpreted by his mother as a mark of his displeasure - for surely a boy of sixteen could not succeed where the most powerful dark wizard had failed. She came to me in a state of near hysteria, begging for her son's life to be spared. That was the sort of influence I had," Snape snorted, "beautiful women coming to me suppliant on their knees. Unfortunately not all were so pliable, and eternal gratitude from the wife of a disgraced Death Eater only goes so far. Rather more fortuitously she was accompanied by her notorious sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. I spotted an opportunity to earn the complete trust of the Dark Lord's innermost circle of Death Eaters and I took it, undertaking to make an Unbreakable Vow to protect Draco. But Narcissa inserted another clause, one which bound me to carry out the task should Draco waver." He glared at her, willing her to object.

"And Dumbledore knew of this?" Hermione said levelly.

"Of course he did," Snape snapped. "And it was a considerable bone of contention once I learnt that, far from using my carefully cultivated intelligence to avert the disaster, Dumbledore expected me to fulfil the terms of the Unbreakable Vow to the full."

Hermione stared at him open-mouthed. "_But why?_"

Snape sighed. "Love," he said, his face twisting into a sour expression as he spat out the unpalatable word. "He made the same choice as Potter's mother, in the end. What a selfless lot you Gryffindors are," he sneered maliciously. "Us Slytherins are rather more self-serving. For example, my acquiescence was rewarded with the Defence Against the Dark Arts professorship – not that I would be around long enough to enjoy the cursed position."

In a sudden flash of inspiration Hermione remembered Hagrid's overheard conversation on the edge of the forest, where Snape had accused Dumbledore of taking too many things for granted. "He wasn't pleading for his life in the Astronomy Tower, was he? That's how it must have appeared to Harry, but really he was pleading for his death – the next adventure. Dumbledore had no reason to fear death, least of all beg for the deliverance he could so easily have chosen himself."

Snape nodded. "And finally we get there, Granger." He stubbed his cigarette out efficiently on the table, sitting up straighter in his chair.

Hermione looked at him across the table, locking eye contact for a brief moment before the intensity of his gaze caused an uncomfortable heat around her collar. "So all these years…" she trailed off, round eyes filled with a sudden understanding.

"Yes, all these years," Snape repeated quietly.

"Surely – surely Dumbledore must have made some sort of provision for after his death? I mean, he couldn't ask you to make it look as though you'd killed him to the Dark Lord and then expect everyone else to believe otherwise – could he?"

Snape sighed. "Telling anyone else otherwise would have entirely defeated the point. He expected that once Voldemort was vanquished I could unmask myself. Indeed, it seemed ludicrous that anyone could question my true persuasions on the basis of the evidence at my disposal. How unfortunate then that the Ministry should decide evidence was no longer a prerequisite to guilt and fling me wordlessly into Azkaban without trial. It would only have taken one Order of the Phoenix member to vouch for my credentials. But you all deserted me like lice on a drowning dog, and for all you cared I could rot in here forever," he snarled.

Hermione bit her lip. "It's terrible," she whispered, "outrageous! They can't just keep you locked up here without charge. We have to do something!"

Snape snorted. "Well I haven't told you all this to be social. I think even you can guess my intentions."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Hermione. "You mean to appeal against your imprisonment?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Naturally. Which is where you come in. I am allowed correspondence neither in nor out of Azkaban – you can appreciate the difficulty in co-ordinating an effective appeal," he said dryly.

Forehead creased in concentration, Hermione stared unseeingly at the corrugated cigarette butt. "But even if you could submit a petition, the Ministry wouldn't dream of giving you a public platform."

"Scared of getting your wrist slapped?" Snape spat back. "Perhaps you think only the liberty of undersized domestic servants worth fighting for?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't help," she said hastily, flushing slightly at the allusion to her S.P.E.W. endeavours, "and if you'd let me finish, I think that filing a petition through a third party may actually help your case. When you were arrested you became an unspeakable, dead to the world. Your petition they can likewise consign to oblivion, mine they can't ignore quite so easily," she finished darkly.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "The testimony of barely-qualified Muggle-borns gone up in the world since my incarceration, has it?"

Hermione looked up sharply. "Considering that I am probably one of the few people who knows you're even alive, and definitely the only person who thinks you're innocent, I don't think there's much profit to be gained from insulting me."

"Well call me a nostalgic old fool," Snape said dryly, although his eyes flashed within his skull-like face at the mention of his innocence.

"Despite your avowed lack of curiosity," she replied, staring pointedly at Snape, "it might interest you to know that I'm a Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I know just how to work the system to our advantage and how to circumnavigate all the procedural objections they'll likely throw up."

Snape looked at her shrewdly. "So what do you suggest?"

Hermione shrugged. "Seems a pretty clear cut case of unlawful constraint without trial to me. Of course, they'll try to argue that, as such safeguards are held to be suspended during times of war, they were legally within their rights to imprison you based on suspicion of committing a crime alone, but they can't possibly uphold such a decision during peacetime. What we need to do is lodge an application for a writ of Habeas Corpus – sorry, that's an order issued by the Wizengamot to instigate an evidential hearing to answer the charge of unlawful constraint."

"From Latin meaning 'you shall produce the body' – yes, I am perfectly conversant with a millennium-old founding principle of our legal system," Snape snapped impatiently.

Only Snape would take offence at an apologetic explanation of specialist terminology, Hermione thought to herself with a touch of amusement. She supposed she could expect nothing less from a man who had chosen to interpret any sleight of comprehension in his classroom as a wilful act of insolence rather than an understandable caution around a bubbling cauldron and its hissing Master. She rose, draping her travelling cloak over her arm as she picked up her briefcase with the hint of a smile on her face.

"I'll report back next week," she said, looking back to address him. "Take care." She fixed one last lingering gaze on his emaciated face before leaving the room.

Snape scowled. It was yet another of those empty platitudes which he thoroughly despised. _'Take care'_ – of what, the elderly and enfeebled? It didn't occur to him that such words only seemed inane when taken at face value, and that Hermione's parting shot was really an expression of solidarity. In fact, it didn't occur to him at all that she would care.

( & )

Hermione stared in grim satisfaction at the carefully composed text in front of her, patiently awaiting signature under the barb of her quill. She had only to affix her name and the document would transform itself from redundant piece of parchment into a legally binding record. And yet she paused, laying down her quill with a deliberate slowness of movement that mirrored her methodical deliberations.

Leaning back in her chair, she massaged her aching wrist with a certain degree of resentment as she surveyed the surrounding barricade of books. Snape could certainly not accuse her of being inattentive this time, she thought wryly to herself – not that this observation would elicit anything approximating gratitude, if past history was anything to go by. Of course, he had taken her acquiescence for granted, assuming that she would automatically jump to the aid of her old teacher. But if Snape was innocent of the charge of murder it did not necessarily expunge his guilt for years of malicious behaviour in the classroom, and she doubted whether the man who had shown such unnatural glee at the thought of subjecting his former school adversary to a Dementor's kiss would have been able to disregard history quite so easily.

Perhaps what made it so difficult to comprehend was the inescapable fact that Snape did not fit the conventional hero mould. Cold, sarcastic and malicious – these were hardly endearing qualities and impossible to reconcile with a selfless and fierce loyalty to the force of 'love'. She snorted at the thought. What did a man like that know of love; a man so wrapped up in self-obsession that his heart was warmed only by the cloak of hatred worn in order to insulate himself from the rest of the world? What possible motor could have driven him to renounce power and ambition – seemingly his very characteristics – in favour of such abstract ideals? She shook her head, mentally scolding herself. She was not here to attempt a psychoanalysis of the man. Snape may have done nothing to deserve her emotional sympathy, but equally he had done nothing to deserve seven years in Azkaban.

With a decisive gesture, she picked up her quill and indented her signature on the dotted line with a flourish that belied her hours of weary labour. Immediately the scroll shuddered, triplicating itself with ghostly precision. She watched dispassionately as its triplets folded into compact rectangles before spiriting off to their respective addressees – one to the Wizengamot, one to the Azkaban Warden and the original for her own records. She doubted very much whether Snape's signature would have produced a similar affect.

But it was done.

( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( & ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) )

A/N:

We know that wizarding law is a formalised procedure, operating on fairly similar lines to the legal system of England and Wales with regards to collective judgement – a fact clearly evidenced by JK's wordplay with the Anglo-Saxon 'Witengamot'. Writs exist from the Anglo-Saxon era and were adopted by the Norman conqueror William I who recognised their utility and sophistication in the eleventh century. There's no reason to suppose that the wizarding world hasn't been similarly pragmatic, hence reference to the writ of habeas corpus.

**Krzyll **points out that some of these scenes are reminiscent of 'Silence of the Lambs'. It may interest you to know that Alan Rickman's unofficial biography claims that the actor was second in line for the role of Hannibal Lecter.

8


	4. Chapter 3 : The Colour Purple

(A/N: apologies that the last section of Chapter 2 was modified shortly after publication – on reflection I felt that introducing a secondary character interrupted the building intensity between Snape and Hermione so Percy had to go.) Chapter 3: The Colour Purple 

Hermione rested her forehead against the windowpane as she stared glumly out into the rain-lashed beyond. She watched a drop of condensation running down the inside glass, racing itself in fits and starts.

"Pathetic fallacy," she muttered half to herself, stopping the fat globule with her finger.

"I beg your pardon?" Snape said testily, raising his head from a productive study of the grain of the table. He would rather she were not here at all, that he had been left to contemplate the outcome of the evidential hearing alone, rather than pent up in a holding cell in the Ministry of Magic with an unwelcome audience analysing his every move. He tugged at his chains irritably. They had not allowed enough slack. Even here, surrounded by a whole department of law enforcement wizards, they would not relax their hold.

"The weather," Hermione explained, turning her head over her shoulder to address Snape. "It seems designed to fit the mood."

Snape harrumphed indeterminately, finally succeeding in manoeuvring one hand onto the table. He resisted the urge to drum his fingers.

"Still, it's an auspicious sign in some cultures," Hermione said brightly, leaving her post at the window and walking over to the table. She paused when she caught sight of his hand resting on the table, mesmerised by the strange elegance which starvation had bestowed on the long white fingers. She almost fancied that she could imagine their tender touch before her gaze raised to Snape's thunderous expression. She hovered for a moment behind her chair, flexing her hands before walking off to pace the small room restlessly. "The Wizengamot have been deliberating an awfully long time, haven't they? I mean, at this stage they're only deciding whether the writ should run, not actually judging the legality of your imprisonment. It should be really straightforward," she chatted nervously.

"Granger, if you don't sit down this minute I swear that your behind will be the first benefice of my restored wand," Snape growled between clenched teeth.

Hermione stopped dead, mouth opening in a small 'o' of surprise before widening into an uncertain smile. "Sorry, I seem to be more nervous than you!"

Snape frowned. Since when had his barbs evoked any apology beyond inarticulate stuttering, and just what did she mean by those curving lips? He watched her shrewdly as she took her seat opposite him, arranging the folds of her robes with fastidious care. Merlin's beard but he hated having to deal with the adult incarnations of his former pupils. He had rather tricked himself into imagining that they simply ceased to exist upon completing their education, remaining only as an infinitely pliable imprint in the recesses of his memory. Yet they would insist on coming back. In his experience, his former pupils invariably fell into one of two categories; there were those who avoided him and those who sought him out. The latter were readily identifiable by the cocky swagger in their approach, amusing him with their mistaken - albeit short-lived - assumption that his position had served to shield the teacher rather than the pupil. Perhaps there was room for a third category inclusive of those who had not actively hated him at school, but Snape gave this anomalous group little consideration.

"Well, at least we know that they haven't dismissed your petition out of hand – they must be discussing _something_ in there," Hermione said presently, startling Snape out of his thoughts.

"Thank you for the endless running commentary – any fascinating insights you'd like to add on the décor?" Snape snapped sarcastically.

Hermione sighed patiently, charitably interpreting Snape's waspish behaviour as a manifestation of nerves. "Why don't you have a cigarette?" she suggested, shaking her box of matches enticingly.

"I thought you didn't approve?" he said, raising an eyebrow as he extracted a cigarette from the pack she had brought during her last visit to Azkaban.

She shrugged. "Shortening your lifespan seems to have a calming effect on you, for some reason," she replied dryly, rising from her seat to offer a light, "who am I to argue?"

Snape smiled at her - an ugly, lop-sided sort of grimace which threw the sharp angles of his gaunt face into horrible relief. "My, aren't we snappy today?" He paused to exhale, fixing his glittering back eyes on her. "You don't have to wait here with me. I'm sure there are more comfortable seating areas specially designed for overpaid civil servants."

"I _want_ to," Hermione insisted, "You shouldn't have to go through this alone."

She regarded him with large brown eyes, so wanton in their expression of understanding pity that he would have laughed at her transparency if he had not suddenly been filled with the alarming notion that she might reach across the table and take his hand in her own. He diverted his attention to his cigarette.

"You know, that's the difference between you and I," He said slowly as he exhaled a plume of smoke, calm percolating through his body like a creeping warmth. "You regard dependence with less reservation than loneliness."

Hermione frowned. "If by dependence you mean friends and family who actually care what happens to me then, yes, I do find it preferable to living in a social vacuum," she replied, somewhat pettishly.

"And I suppose you mean to imply that I, ah, reaped what I sowed," Snape said with an amused quirk of his eyebrow, "that if I had cultivated a stronger social network I would not have been thrown into Azkaban and forgotten quite so easily?" He took a drag on his cigarette, ascertaining the truth of his words by her quick downward glance.

"Well, perhaps you could have been slightly more, er, politic in your interactions with certain members of the Order of the Phoenix," Hermione suggested tentatively.

Snape laughed, startling Hermione with the incongruity of the noise. "You think perhaps I should have enquired after Mundungus Fletcher's extracurricular activities, or developed an appreciative tongue for Molly Weasley's stodgy cooking?"

"Well one or two communal dinners at Grimmauld Place wouldn't have gone totally amiss," Hermione said defensively. "You didn't have to make your distaste for our company quite so plain by rushing out the moment your official duties were fulfilled."

"Oh yes, I can imagine how disappointing that must have been for you all," Snape sneered sarcastically. "What you neglect to consider," he continued, jabbing the end of his cigarette at her, "is that I had very little say in the matter. I was a double agent, Granger - by our very nature we are shadowy figures, utilised by both sides but trusted by neither. I didn't join the Order of the Phoenix for the social scene. While you were tucking into your hearty stews and evincing an aura of self-satisfied good cheer among yourselves I was tracking the movements of the Dark Lord's most feared followers."

Hermione stared at him across the table. "I think you _want_ to be misunderstood," she said finally, folding her arms across her chest, "and that you arm yourself with sharp words like social grenades."

"Oh, and that deep down I just want to be loved?" Snape suggested mockingly.

Hermione waited for his laughter to subside. "No, and that's the _real_ difference between you and I. You need to feel hated, because it's the only way you know how to make people react to you as an individual. Without hatred you lose your identity, you cease to exist."

Snape looked at her speculatively, cocking his head to one side. He took a drag on his cigarette, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her face. "Tell me, do you still yearn for acceptance, Granger? Do you still crave that which your duller peers so effortlessly achieve? And in your darker moments, in the periods of clinical self-examination when the night presses down on you with the crushing weight of your emptiness you find yourself wishing you were just like them, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said hotly, looking away quickly.

"Oh I think you do," Snape said silkily, smirking across the table. "I think you identify with the oppressed because deep down you feel a natural empathy – after all, it's what you've been doing to yourself all these years. But then egocentricity often leads us to transpose our own values onto the actions of others. Don't give it out if you can't take it back," he finished coldly, settling back into his chair.

Hermione was silent, looking down at her folded hands in her lap. Snape was not fooled by the demure posture, smirking to himself as he detected the angry clenching of her lower jaw - subtle, but there if you knew where to look. He stared at her openly across the table, raising his cigarette to his lips without deviating attention from the pale, down-turned face. Fascinating. His ruminations were only interrupted when the door burst open to emit a bespecled-looking wizard who frowned at the tableaux before him.

"The party of Severus Snape, Court 4," he announced curtly, reading off his clipboard. "I suppose you are the plaintiff's petitioner?" He stared at Hermione unblinkingly from behind the thick lenses of his glasses, stepping past Snape without acknowledgement.

"Yes," she said briskly. Snape watched her rise from her seat like a phoenix from the flames; suddenly smart, efficient and formidable as she re-entered her own world. He looked down at his chains, irritation flashing across his features.

"Follow me, please."

Hermione looked back uncertainly at Snape.

"The plaintiff will be collected by security trolls for transportation to the court," the usher explained dully, holding the door open impatiently.

With one last parting shot at Snape, Hermione followed out of the holding cell, the door slamming shut with a resounding clunk that jangled on Snape's frayed nerves. He turned to his cigarette, cursing when he saw that it had already burned down to the butt.

Hermione had never appeared before the Wizengamot before. The highest appellate court was nearly always conducted as a closed court, attended only by plaintiff and defendant. Despite the impressive description furnished by Harry when he had been charged with committing offences under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, she sucked in a gasp as she entered. The walls were made of a dark stone which blended seamlessly into the ceiling, giving the impression of a room suspended in space and time. Empty benches rose on either side, but it was to the ones immediately in front that her eyes fixed. They were filled with about fifty shadowy figures, affecting not to notice her entrance as they continued to converse in muttered undertones which swirled around the dungeon like the caresses of a hungry snake. In the absence of instruction she hovered on the floor before making up her own mind and turning left into the nearest tier of benches. Swallowing nervously she sidled onto a bench, feeling as though she were on display as the empty seats fanned out around her like pointing fingers.

Minutes elapsed, her head swivelling automatically as the door to the court opened a second time. This time all conference stopped as abruptly as the snuffing of a candle. She watched Snape's entrance apprehensively, biting her lip as he was led roughly to the chair in the centre of the courtroom and pushed onto the seat. The chains on the arms of the chair responded instantly, snaking up his arms so fast that Hermione had to blink to clear her vision. Snape, however, did not display any surprise, sitting calmly in the chair without facial expression. He made a fearsome impression, fathomless black eyes glaring out of a wasted face. It was like coming face to face with death in the eyes of a ruthless predator and recognising intelligence as the jaws yawned open in silent farewell.

"Severus Snape," said a curt voice from the council's bench. Hermione's eyes darted back to the Wizengamot, identifying the severe-looking wizard who had opened proceedings. "You have been brought from Azkaban to hear the Wizengamot's judgement for your petition of a writ of Habeas Corpus. We have reached a verdict." He paused, looking over his spectacles to examine the unpalatable creature in front of him. Several members of the council shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and one or two turned to glare accusingly at Hermione - although their hostility was wasted as her attention remained fixed exclusively on the speaker. He cleared his throat self-importantly. "We hereby recognise issue of the Great Writ."

Relief flooded her body like a tonic, tingling through to the ends of her fingertips. She tried to catch Snape's eye but he kept his gaze fixed expressionlessly on the officious wizard, not a flicker of emotion betrayed on his face.

"Bail will be granted under the following conditions," he continued, raising his voice to make himself heard above mutterings of the council – mutinous exclamations that made it clear that the verdict had been anything but unanimous. "The plaintiff is to be placed under secure house arrest until such time as his case is heard; the plaintiff's wand will remain in custody and the plaintiff is strictly forbidden from using magic or magical aids during the interim; the plaintiff is to remain incommunicado and will be referred to only as Mister X in all court papers. In addition, the plaintiff must provide a wizard or witch to stand surety for his conduct. That is all."

Snape sneered, flashing his teeth at the Wizengamot. He cast his eye over them, regarding with contempt the unquestioning conviction they took from the collective donning of plum-coloured robes. Purple – the colour of truth, even to the point of martyrdom. Well that was a joke. They didn't care about the truth any more than they cared about justice – for how was he to find someone to stand surety when he was to be kept incommunicado from the rest of the world? He looked back to the carefully stitched silver 'W' on the left-hand side of the Wizengamot robes. '_With silver weapons you may conquer the world,'_ the Delphic Oracle had advised Philip of Macedonia back in the fourth century B.C. Now it only required a little bureaucracy.

"Until such conditions can be met and suretyship guaranteed, you will be returned to Azkaban until a date has been set for Snape versus Azkaban." the speaker continued, his booming voice hitting against the sides of Snape's skull like a physical assault so that he actually screwed up his eyes against the onslaught.

He turned his head slowly to face Hermione, channelling every drop of hatred into the accusatory glare. It was her fault. She had allowed him to hope, nurturing the tiny grain like fattening cattle for the slaughter. It would be so much harder now.

Hermione returned his gaze mournfully, maintaining eye contact as she rose from the bench, not even thinking about what she was about to do. "I will stand surety," she said clearly, finally breaking her gaze to address the Wizengamot. "I will stand surety for Severus Snape."

There was an excited murmuring from the council. The speaker conferred hastily with his neighbour before turning back to face Hermione with a frown on his heavy features. "Do you know what that means?" he said sternly.

"I understand that I will make an Unbreakable Vow with the plaintiff," she said steadily, clenching her fists at her sides and refusing to risk a glance at Snape.

"And that should the prisoner abscond, you will be sent to Azkaban in his place?" He paused, staring at the young woman's unwavering gaze with disbelieving severity.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I understand."

He shook his head. "Very well then."

( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( & ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) )

Hermione looked out of the window distractedly – an unexceptional view of a residential London street lined with Victorian terrace houses whose imperious facades had witnessed the class of inhabitants rise and fall and then rise again with unvarying disinterest. It was a wide street with a pronounced camber that had once made it a natural playground. Now parked cars took the place of children and the trees planted so propitiously along the pavement had been pruned back into knobbly sticks to prevent the acidic sap from dripping onto metallic paint jobs.

Hermione hadn't been living there very long, but it had been long enough to evolve her own way of doing things - the sort of unthinking routine which lead her to ignore the coat-stand and drape her outer garments over a kitchen chair every evening, or to cultivate an increasingly unwieldy library of out-of-date newspapers in the upstairs bathroom. Insignificant instances, but drop a pebble on a calm surface and the ripples only continue to grow outward, even though the stone professes to sink out of sight. This was how she viewed Snape's impending arrival. For Snape had no house in which to be arrested, all property confiscated by a Bill of Attainder issued by the Minister of Magic shortly after he was taken to Azkaban. His belongings were probably collecting a thick coat of dust in a forgotten warehouse somewhere, or – perhaps more likely – had been destroyed years ago. Either way, Snape had become Hermione's responsibility when she had undertaken to stand surety for him, and would be her houseguest for the foreseeable future. Today – soon – her routine would be ripped asunder when Snape was finally cleared by the Ministry of Magic to Floo into her home like a badly addressed parcel to which no one wanted to admit ownership.

She stepped away from the window, wrapping her arms around herself as the memory of making the Unbreakable Vow reared unbidden through her thoughts. She could feel the callused texture of Snape's rough skin against her own, his hand easily enveloping her own in an almost studied form of poetic contrast. He did not flinch at the contact – rather, he pressed his hand more firmly against her own. She had been surprised at the strength of that grip, and the warmth of his skin against her own. Perhaps she had expected his hands to feel as smooth and lifeless as the alabaster slabs they resembled. But he had not wavered, not even as the tongues of flame entwined around their linked hands and he stared unblinkingly into her eyes, issuing his unspoken challenge. In that blazing moment she had suddenly felt that they were equals. And then it had been over, the Bonder had lowered his wand and the tongues of flame had dissipated into the air. But Snape had not lowered his gaze, and they had remained locked together, palm to palm in a feeling of naked intimacy until one of them – she didn't recall which – had finally broken the bond. Her palm had tingled for some considerable time afterward, reminding her of her promise.

"Well?"

She whipped around in alarm at the impatient drawl to find Snape interrogating her with his eyes as though it were she who had just stepped unexpectedly out of his fireplace. "Professor! You – you startled me," she admonished lightly. "I've been waiting for you."

"That much I had managed to surmise," Snape said dryly, lifting an eyebrow.

"Would – would you like something to eat, or to drink? Do you want me to show you around first?" She swallowed hard, feeling keenly the awkwardness of the social situation.

He looked boredly around her living room, before answering in unusually civil tones. "May I have a bath?"

"Oh, of course!" She flushed as she was suddenly made aware of his appearance. Removed from his usual context, she noticed afresh the pitiful thinness of his body and the dirt-encrusted skin which she had somehow become inured to in the grime of Azkaban.

She led him up the narrow staircase to the bathroom, explaining the layout of the three-storey house as they ascended. "Downstairs we have the kitchen and reception rooms, first floor is bedrooms and bathroom, and above is an annexe which I use for a study." His tread was so light that she had to stop half-way up, pivoting around with her hand on the banister to check that he was still following.

"I thought this could be your room, although there's another spare bedroom further along if you prefer," she announced as she led him through a door at the end of the first-floor corridor. "This one has a nice view of the garden."

Snape surveyed the large room without comment. Clearly her personal taste had not yet breached the threshold, for the walls were papered with a heavy, dark green pattern that must have predated her occupancy - if not her birth - by several decades. He cocked his head, wandering with a touch of amusement whether she considered this sombre scheme approximate to his taste. The furniture was equally antiquarian, consisting of a mismatched collection of dark-wood structures which had seen better days, although the four-poster bed was certainly a welcome friend from his former life. He imagined the bliss of sinking his head onto a plump, yielding pillow and abandoning himself to uninterrupted sleep under the warmth of a down quilt. Of course, his mind wandered lazily to other pleasures he had once known on a well-sprung mattress and he felt his stomach plunge as it had not done for years now. His hungry eyes switched back to Hermione.

"I've laid some new robes out on the bed," she continued, lowering her eyes self-consciously as she pointed to the neatly folded garment on the counterpane. "I can do some shopping for you tomorrow if you let me know what you require."

"Thank you." Snape said, bowing his head as they continued in the same oddly formal vein. "I'll let you know if I need anything else."

Taking this as a pointer to leave, she backed out of the room and went downstairs to wait for him. Even by her standards he was a long time in the bath. She felt, rather than heard, him enter the living room, dropping her book as she looked up to survey the figure looming in the doorway. The robes she had purchased from Madame Malkin's the previous day hung off him like a scarecrow, the bones of his shoulders protruding around the neck-line - but that would be rectified with time. The skin on his face was smooth, if not a little irritated by the unaccustomed scrape of a keen razor. Only those long ringlets of matted hair prevented a complete metamorphose. He stood awkwardly under her speculative gaze, having recently ascertained the horrible truth for himself in the bathroom mirror before providence and steam mercifully intervened.

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "We really need to do something about that hair."

"We?" Snape replied bitingly.

"Well unless you want to try cutting your own hair, but nobody ever makes that mistake twice," Hermione retorted, "and I hardly think you're about to risk Azkaban for the sake of a pot of Sleakeazy's Hair Potion."

Snape narrowed his eyes but consented to her suggestion, sitting down grumpily on a stool in the kitchen as she rummaged through countless drawers before locating a pair of hair scissors. He eyed the blades somewhat apprehensively as she circled behind him, and jumped a little too noticeably when her fingers reached into his hair. He had not known human touch for seven years.

Hermione frowned as she examined the back of his head, tugging experimentally at a stubborn knot with her comb. "Hmm, I think I'm going to have to cut most of it off to get out all the knots, but I'll try to save some length."

The words floated meaninglessly past Snape's ears, his body only interested in the movements of her plucking fingers and the occasional brush of ripe, pink flesh against his own. He watched the great chunks of hair slowly taper into insubstantial wisps, closing his eyes against his will as she pulled the comb soothingly through his shoulder-length hair to tease out the remaining knots.

"There, all done," she announced brightly, taking a step back to admire her work. It was much as she remembered his hair at Hogwarts, although she could do nothing about the liberal streaks of white hair among the black. Yet she quite liked the contrast, replacing some of his former severity with the appropriate degree of professorial dignity. She reached a hand forward and smoothed a kink at the back, the tips of her nails raking the skin on the back of his neck.

Snape accepted the offer of a hand-held mirror, touching the ends of his scythed hair with satisfaction. Not bad. He angled the mirror to watch the girl out of the corner of his eye. He would have to be careful there, careful that he didn't indiscriminately consume the first sighting of meat to satisfy his hunger. In the long-run, he would surely derive more pleasure from breaking her than from f.ucking her.

For Snape had been locked away for seven years with nothing to sustain him but hatred. Hatred builds on itself, but it still needs fuel. Snape had already fed his childhood bullies to the pyre, but that had not been enough. He had turned to Harry Potter because he had reminded him of his father. Now that both generations had been consumed by the flames he must turn to the next link in the chain.

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A/N:

Pathetic fallacy is a literary devise which reflects the feelings of the protagonist through descriptions of inanimate objects

The boy with the thorn in his side /

Behind the hatred there lies /

A murderous desire for love /

Lyrics to _'The Boy with the Thorn in his Side'_ by The Smiths – one of JK's favourite bands, incidentally

Purple was formerly worn as a symbol of royalty or high office, and continues to fulfil this function in the Catholic church where it denotes the office of a cardinal or bishop

Philip II, King of Macedonia c.382 – 336 B.C. and father of Alexander the Great

Under English Law, a Bill of Attainder declared a person guilty of some crime, usually treason, without trial and punished them by nullifying their civil rights and revoking all title and property which subsequently reverted to the Crown. Abolished in the UK in 1870.

10


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